


Dogged

by exchequered (kesterstjohn)



Category: Van Helsing (2004)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Puns & Word Play, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-08 06:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15237465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesterstjohn/pseuds/exchequered
Summary: Packs of dogs terrorise the night-time streets of Constantinople; Carl wants a little recognition - and wouldn't mind a spot of sight-seeing; Van Helsing faces old memories... and old friends. Just another assignment for the Knights of the Holy Order.





	Dogged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highlander_II](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highlander_II/gifts).



_Now_

Howling, barking, all around him. Terror lunging from the darkness. Sharp teeth. Slavering maws. Wet muzzles thrust against his hands, heavy jaws snapping at his robes. Hot breath curdled with the stench of rotten meat.

Carl runs. The dogs give chase.

His sandals slip-slap against the cobblestones. The upper storeys of wooden houses loom together as if bowing their heads in prayer. The skittering of claws on marble. Excited yelps and more howling, dogs summoning more of their kind to pursue him, to hunt him down.

Carl’s heart pounds, the beat of his pulse through his head counting frantic time. If he hesitates, if he falls— If he _falls_ —

*

_Then_

The pigeon pecks at the window for the fifth time. Grumbling, Carl extricates himself from Gabriel’s embrace and rolls out of bed. His robe is on the floor, where he’d left it. He pulls it on over his head, flattens his disordered hair as best he can, then opens the window.

The pigeon slips inside and waits patiently on the sill.

“Right.” It takes Carl a moment to break off a few crumbs from the bread that had accompanied their meal last night, before other hungers had interrupted. He offers the bird this modest repast and, while it eats, unfurls the message tied to its leg.

“Why don’t you invent an easier system of communication?” Gabriel asks. He sits up, arms tucked behind his head, dark hair a tangle around his face. “Relying on pigeons is positively medieval.”

“Older than that, actually,” Carl corrects absently as he scans the note. “But I take your point. The telegraph is simply not reliable enough and apt to interception. If one could invent a portable telegraph device, however…” He turns the message upside down. The hand is the Cardinal’s, but that’s all he can make out. A tight formation of letters and numbers dashes across the waxed paper; no matter how many permutations he tries, he can’t break the code.

It’s cold, he realises. Cold, damp sea-fog curls in through the window, displacing the musky warmth of the room, chasing away the intimacy of the night. Carl huddles into his robes and looks out at the Grand Canal, the surface of the dark blue water stirred by passing gondolas and merchant vessels. The fog is so thick he can’t see the other side of the canal. A ghostly world, full of disembodied sounds carried across a distance.

He shoos out the pigeon and closes the window. The message he tosses onto the rumpled sheets. “It’s in cipher.”

Gabriel reads through it as easily as if it had been written in plain Latin. “It’s addressed to me.”

“Yes, but we’re on assignment together. Any message for you must therefore be a message for me.”

A smile quirks Gabriel’s mouth. “You have an interesting way of seeing things, Carl.”

“As you told me last night. I believe that was meant as a compliment.”

“It was.”

“But now I’m not so sure.” Carl begins to dress properly, retrieving other garments from around the room. “I mean, I’m not sure the phrase is intended in quite so complimentary a manner this morning.”

Engrossed in reading, Gabriel only says, “Hmm?”

Carl finds his cowl hooked on the door handle. He can’t imagine how it got there. “Really, Van Helsing. I do wish you’d do me the courtesy of listening. What does Cardinal Jinette say?”

The paper flutters to the floor. “Not much. He suggests a trip to Constantinople.”

“Constantinople?” About to pick up the discarded note, Carl bolts upright. “But that’s in the opposite direction to Rome!”

Gabriel throws back the covers and gets out of bed. “Geography always was your strong point.” He dresses with his habitual swiftness, buckling on his holster and feeling beneath the bed for his steam-propelled crossbow.

“Constantinople.” Carl says it again, tasting the name. “How exciting. I’ve always wanted to go there. The Hagia Sophia. The Blue Mosque. The cisterns, the palaces, the Grand Bazaar, Galata Tower. Dervishes and spices and more mosques and political upheaval and a crumbling empire and…”

“The Golden Gate,” Gabriel says, his tone abrupt. He pulls on his long, leather coat, turning up the collar as he goes to the window. His back to Carl, he looks out into the fog.

“Yes. Of course.” Carl swallows. He hadn’t forgotten Gabriel’s history with the former city of Byzantium, not exactly. Knotting the rope belt on his robe, he ventures across the room and tentatively lays a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Do you remember very much?”

“Do I remember the Fall of Constantinople? An army of eighty thousand against a fighting force a tenth of the size. A bombardment of cannon fire, the city walls repaired daily, sometimes hourly by women and the elderly. The din of church bells. Hope beaten down by despair, until only desperation was left. The Emperor begging forgiveness from his subjects. The walls scaled, the gates opened, Turks rushing in intent on plunder and rape and murder. Thousands dead, buildings destroyed. Blood and dust and voided bowels. Ruin everywhere.” Bitterness in his voice. Black despair and vicious guilt. “Yes, I remember.”

Turning, Gabriel picks up his hat and jams it on his head. He leaves the room, his coattails swirling. The door shuts quietly behind him.

“Wait,” Carl calls after him, “you haven’t told me why we’re going!”

*

_Now_

The cowl of his friar’s robe slides back, baring his head to the night. His hair is an indeterminate sandy-blond, not red like a fox’s coat, but in this moment he feels a kinship with that creature. Rational thought flees his mind, all his cleverness wiped away by sheer panic. He’s animal now, as much a beast as the dogs chasing him. Unlike a fox, he has nowhere to go to ground. This city is unfamiliar, save for a few locations too far away to be of any use.

He catches a hand against the corner of a house, swinging himself around with such force he almost stumbles. His palm stings from the contact. Focus on that, not on the panting of the dogs. Their claws clicking. The hot, feral sense of triumph building behind him.

They’re gaining.

*

_Then_

Steam gusts across the platform, blurring outlines in the midmorning light. Carl steps smartly to avoid a large woman swathed in furs, a yapping lapdog tucked under one arm. Gabriel barrels past, forcing the woman’s languid escort aside and ignoring the shouts of “I say, sir! Mind your manners!”

Carl dodges a couple of porters, keeping tight hold of his travel bag. There’s nothing truly valuable inside it, just clean garments and a small dispensary in a rosewood box, a gift from Gabriel after that assignment in Hamburg went awry. Even though Van Helsing seemed to be immortal, he certainly wasn’t invulnerable; as a result, Carl had become proficient at bandaging wounds and administering what Gabriel jokingly refers to as 'toxins' and which anyone else would call 'medicine'.

Dragomen cluster outside Sirkeci station, eager to offer their services to those newly arrived in the city. Gabriel strides past without stopping; Carl has to fend them off, explaining in French, English, and Greek that thank you, he’s quite capable of finding his way about, that’s what maps are for, yes thank you, he’d purchased Mr Baedeker’s latest guide, no he doesn’t need transport anywhere, and the only baggage he has is currently walking away at speed.

Leaving the disappointed locals in his wake, Carl trots after Gabriel. They pass the bridge over the Golden Horn, so recently rebuilt that the wood retains its freshness. European Pera lies on the other side of the water, fashionable shops and glamorous hotels in the shadow of the Galata Tower. On their left is the heart of the city, the antique and the modern scrapping and coexisting in a jumble of ancient city walls, aqueducts, and churches, Ottoman mosques, gardens, and markets.

The city is an assault on the senses. After the cool serenity of Venice, Constantinople is noise and heat. Languages babble around him, some familiar, others incomprehensible. French diplomats walk alongside Anatolian peasants. The light glints on gold, curves around blue, dazzles on white. The smell from the waterway is rich with the tang of salt and thick with the fug of petrol.

Gabriel stops at a stall in the lee of the bridge and buys a fried fish sandwich. He bites into it carefully, as if expecting bones, then makes a sound of pleasure and takes a larger bite. “Some things never change,” he says, offering what’s left of the sandwich. “Try it.”

Carl holds the greasy snack away from his robe. On the train, they’d dined on _terrine de Canard truffée_ and _glace Plombières_. He risks a nibble, then throws the rest for the circling gulls.

Gabriel walks with purpose. They follow the shoreline, passing deeper into history with each district. Carl wonders if the memories are flooding back, or if Gabriel’s mind still holds as fast as the Theodosian Walls that encircle the city, allowing only a glimpse of recollection with each breach. He wants to ask, but remembering Gabriel’s response in Venice, remains silent.

At length they arrive at a church of baroque appearance, an elegant edifice that would not look out of place in the boulevards of Paris. The main entrance is shut, a gate locked into place; they enter through another door, and Carl breathes in the familiar scent of incense and shadows and holiness.

They are expected, it seems. From the darkness a man in black robes comes forth. He clasps Gabriel’s hands and intones a blessing, a smile breaking through the solemnity of his black beard.

“Carl,” Gabriel says formally, “may I present His All Holiness, Patriarch Dionysius V. Your All Holiness, this is my… companion and fellow member of the Holy Order, Carl.”

If the Patriarch is surprised by Carl’s appearance, he doesn’t show it. “You are welcome,” he says. “Please, take some refreshment in my residence. You have journeyed far.”

It’s on the tip of Carl’s tongue to point out that, while they have indeed travelled far, they did so in comfort and luxury; quite unlike their journey to Transylvania. But it’s not every day that one is offered tea by the Patriarch of the Eastern Church, so Carl follows with his mouth shut, until they reach a room filled with books and globes and scrolls, and then his mouth falls open.

“But this is marvellous!”

The Patriarch stops beside a desk laden with manuscripts. He pats the topmost folio as if it were a beloved dog. “Books loaned from our libraries on Mount Athos. Perhaps you might find them of interest.”

Carl has lived at the Vatican long enough to recognise an indirect order. “I would be delighted, Your All Holiness.”

He sits at the desk and draws the manuscripts towards him, keeping a watchful eye on Gabriel and the Patriarch. They withdraw to the far end of the room, where a small fire burns in the hearth. A servant brings tea, but none is offered to Carl. Well, he is surrounded by priceless texts from Mount Athos. He tries to listen to the conversation, but his efforts are frustrated by the crackle of the flames, the continuous clatter of the Patriarch’s teaspoon against his glass, and the low voices in which Gabriel and Dionysius insist on speaking.

He doesn’t care. He’s only a _companion_. Miffed, Carl selects a manuscript at random: a Miscellany purported to have been written by Auxentius of Bithynia. The paper is wonderfully old, smooth beneath his touch; the text is gloriously byzantine, a defence of heresy. Carl reads on, rapt.

He’s just reading Auxentius’ thoughts on apostasy when he becomes aware of raised voices. Carl closes the book with care and lifts his head, glances towards the fireplace.

“Something must be done.” The Patriarch’s hands are closed into fists, his shoulders rigid. “Night has become a time of fear; people are terrified. Not only the souls entrusted to my care, but the Armenians, Bulgarians, Romanians, the Kurds, the Jews, and the Turks. No sect is safer than the others. No religion can claim they are untouched. Even the seculars have been attacked.”

Gabriel sits easily in his chair, dwarfing its elegant proportions. “You’re certain these creatures are dogs, not demons?”

“As certain as I can be. I have had dialogue with other spiritual leaders, and ascertained that prayers have had no effect. Father Kostadin from the Iron Church dashed holy water over a pack of dogs only last week, and though the curs fled yelping, they exhibited no signs of distress. Instead, Father Kostadin said they seemed to be expressing remorse—if such a thing were possible.”

“Hmm.” Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, Gabriel leans forward. “Is there any particular location the dogs favour?”

The Patriarch shakes his head. “They range across the whole city, from Üsküdar to Örtakoy, Edirnekapı to Topkapı. They are as indiscriminate in their roaming as they are in their attacks upon the people.”

His interest piqued, Carl asks, “Was the moon full on the nights of the attacks?”

Both men turn to stare at him, but it’s the Patriarch who speaks first. “No.” He glances at Gabriel. “You have encountered werewolves?”

“Who hasn’t,” Carl says, as if facing the slavering, shape-shifting beasts was as much an everyday occurrence as buying fresh-baked bread. “We can help you, Your All Holiness. We have a plethora of experience. Or should that be a multitude? Either way, we know how to deal with both supernatural creatures and creatures touched by otherworldy forces. Van Helsing and I have worked together on several assignments, from London to Odense, Granada to Venice. You may be assured that we conduct ourselves with the utmost professionalism, and if Van Helsing is apt to be rash in his decisions, I am a man of science and bring logic to bear on any given situation. Thus—”

He breaks off. Gabriel has risen to his feet and is approaching, a warning look in his eyes. “Carl.” His voice is growly. That’s supposed to be a warning, too, but Carl has always found it rather exciting.

“In short, Your All Holiness, you may have complete faith in us,” Carl finishes before his breath runs out on a squeak. “We are the best the Holy Order can offer.”

Patriarch Dionysius crosses himself. “God help us all.”

*

_Now_

Carl runs, and now he’s in a narrow street, heading downhill. Seven hills in this city. Surely not a coincidence, but this is not the time for such musings. He runs, breath forcing out of his lungs, legs aching, his arms pumping. He has to stay ahead. Doesn’t matter whether it’s ten yards or one foot, he has to keep ahead of the dogs.

Don’t look back. Don’t think. Look forward.

Ahead, glimpses of water between the wooden buildings. A shimmering path of moonlight split by the solid shape of the Galata Bridge. Civilisation has never seemed further away.

He senses rather than hears the dog leap at him. Its paws thump at him, almost unbalance him. Rank breath against his nape. The snap of jaws, and his cloak rips, jerks him back. He strains forward. He can’t stop. He pulls, feels the cloth give way, and then he’s running faster, faster.

A cry startles from his throat. The sound sets the dogs baying. They’re closing with him. It’s only a matter of time before they bring him to the ground, and then— And then—

*

_Then_

They continue their task the next day, walking through districts distinguished by language and clothing and the smell of cooked food, by the dancing bear chained to a post, by those who wear fez and those who go bareheaded, by the choice of flowers grown on the balconies and in the games the children play in the streets.

In every district, no matter which side of the Golden Horn, it’s the same—there are no dogs to be seen. Pigeons strut, sparrows cheep from shrubs and trees, cats laze in the sun, vermin scuffle through back-street rubbish… But no dogs. Not a single stray.

“It’s strange,” Carl says, slowing his pace to admire a tiny jewel of a mosque atop an arcade of shops. “His All Holiness said this affliction includes pampered family pets as well as canines from the streets. Where have the dogs run to? What are they doing?”

Gabriel grunts. “Dogs are pack animals. They’re probably massing together somewhere.”

“Forgive me if I don’t find that thought reassuring.” Carl dawdles some more, yearning to have a peek inside the mosque. “Rüstem Pasha is built at an elevated position with perspectives to several streets. Perhaps we could have a word with the custodian; he might have useful information.”

“You said the same thing at Hagia Sophia, at the Sultan Ahmet mosque, at Topkapı Palace...” Gabriel tips up the brim of his hat and shoots Carl a droll look. “If you want to be a tourist, be my guest. We’re going to the Grand Bazaar.”

Stung, Carl puts his nose in the air and walks a little faster. “I’m accompanying you. That’s what _companions_ do.”

“Ah, Carl.” Gabriel shakes his head as they enter the bazaar through an unprepossessing gate, past stalls of silverware, plate for the table, vessels for water, exquisite candlebra. “What did you want me to tell the Patriarch? ‘This is Carl, my lover?’”

He sniffs. “‘Partner’ would be sufficient. I am your partner, after all, Van Helsing. In all meanings of the word.”

“Well, partner, help me out here. This assignment should appeal to you. Don’t all Franciscans love animals?”

It’s impossible to feel aggrieved when Gabriel turns that appealing gaze on him. Carl relents a little, allows his ruffled feathers to be soothed. He draws in a breath, the metallic tang of the silversmiths replaced by the softer, warmer scent of carpets. Around them, stalls are draped with rugs of all sizes, some shimmering silk, others plain wool with simple country patterns. Colours blaze, calling attention away from the arched roof of the bazaar, an architectural marvel in itself.

“We’re supposed to love all of God’s creatures,” Carl says, “but I admit it’s easier to love puppies than it is to feel affection for a flea.”

Gabriel comes to a halt so suddenly that shoppers going about their business bump into him. He stares at Carl. “A flea. I wonder…”

“What?” Carl stops with him.

“Something is making the city’s dogs group into packs and attack people at night. The Patriarch is positive it’s not demonic possession. What if it’s sickness?”

“You mean like the plague? The dogs are infected by fleas?”

“It’s a theory.”

Carl tries to think it through. “But why would it only affect dogs? The Black Death was transmitted by fleas, carried by rats, which infected other animals.” He gestures around the bazaar, at the sparrows flitting beneath the domed roof, the songbirds singing in gilded cages, a monkey sitting on a tiny carpet of its own and making chattering noises at customers, the cats slinking from one _han_ to another in search of food or congenial company. “There are plenty of other animals here, and none of them are exhibiting the same urges as the dogs.”

With a sudden swift motion, Gabriel bends and scoops up a marmalade cat. The startled animal yowls and lashes out, but its claws leave only the slightest of marks on his leather coat. “Hush,” he tells it, rolling the cat onto its back and cradling it. A hiss meets his efforts, but the cat permits itself to be examined.

“It’s clean,” he says. “No fleas. But that doesn’t mean—”

The cat hisses again, its ears flat and its face distorted. Twisting itself from Gabriel’s arm, it drops to the floor and streaks away.

Seconds later, a cry goes up. A dog, something large—a mastiff, perhaps—something grey with a solid head and pink gaping jaws, something with lots of teeth—comes charging into the market. Its claws clatter against the floor as it swerves from left to right. It barks once, a summoning sound that sets the songbirds to screeching and sends the sparrows flying.

People scream and scatter. Bags drop, goods are flung aside. Oranges roll across the floor; coffee is spilled. A child wails. The goldsmiths in the next street over rattle down the gates that keep their goods secure overnight.

Carl stands frozen, the dog hurtling towards him. The stallholders either side of the street are shouting to him, urging him to seek safety, come inside their shop, they have a door, they have a gun. Still he remains motionless.

The dog leaps. Its tongue lolls. Its teeth flash.

Gabriel shoves him out of the way. Carl goes staggering, falls against a pile of carpets. The soft scratch of wool beneath his palms. The faint vinegar scent of fixed dye. He whirls in time to see the dog snatch at Gabriel’s coat, its head wagging to and fro as it growls and growls.

“What do you want?” Gabriel shouts, yanking at his coat. He repeats the question in half a dozen languages, including two that don’t sound earthly. The dog lets go, leaving drool all over the coat, and springs at the stallholder who’d claimed he had a gun.

He does have a gun. It looks like it hasn’t been used in three hundred years. Before the man can cock the trigger, the dog is on him, sinking its teeth into his leg. Yelling, the man topple backwards. A puff of smoke, a crack, and the gun goes off. Flame belches from the muzzle. The bullet is hurled up and buries itself in the roof.

“Van Helsing! Do something!” Carl flings himself from the pile of carpets and hastens to the stallholder lying bleeding on the floor. He rolls up his sleeves and drops down beside the injured man. He wishes he’d brought his medicine box with him. Never mind that he’s only ever used its contents on Gabriel, it’d be better than nothing.

“What do you want?” Gabriel’s voice, asking the same question he’d demanded of the dog. This time, though his tone is terse, it’s a lot less angry.

Carl looks up. “Where’s the dog? I want you to get rid of that dog!”

Gabriel manages a half-smile. “It’s gone. Ran off as soon as you came over all Galen. What can I do?”

“Run to the Spice Bazaar and get me some calendula, yarrow, and honey.” Carl pauses. “Then fetch a real doctor.”

*

_Now_

Carl grits his teeth against his fear. He’s faced worse foes. Vampire brides. Werewolves. Dracula himself. Demons slipping from Doom Paintings on the walls of churches. Banshees and hobgoblins. Creatures far more terrifying than a pack of wild dogs. He’s come through all these experiences with nary a scratch. All right, there was that time when he’d broken his arm, but really that was because he’d fallen from a window; it could happen to anyone.

Another dog makes a lunge. He sees it from the corner of his eye and adjusts his path, swerving across the street and almost tumbling headlong down a narrow flight of stairs. He runs without any control, the world blurring around him. The dogs yap, their excitement reaching fever-pitch. Do they know something he doesn’t? Is this a dead end?

He has no choice. Carl bolts down an alleyway. A sharp stink rises from it, something nasty and fetid. The ground underfoot is damp and slimy. He’s halfway down the alley before he realises the barking behind him has turned to snuffling and whimpering.

It’s madness, but he pauses, looks back. He braces himself with both hands against the wall, ready to run again. The miasma is all around him now. The smell of a caged beast, anger and resignation, like the lions in the Sultan’s menagerie.

One of the dogs lets out a mournful howl. Dozens of them crowd the mouth of the alley, but not one will set foot into it in pursuit.

Carl begins to hope he is safe.

Then he hears a noise behind him, and his guts turn to ice.

*

_Then_

“I’m glad it wasn’t serious,” Carl says as he lays out the contents of his medicine box, tiny glass bottles of concentrates, a pair of sharp scissors, needles and a blade, suturing thread and bandages and compresses, pills and potions labelled in his own hand, remedies guaranteed to soothe, to sweeten, or to render unconscious.

“What?” Gabriel is pacing the width of their room in the Patriarch’s palace. Though of modest dimensions, an exquisite icon of the Virgin and Christ Child hangs on the whitewashed wall, looking down upon furniture in the French style. The window overlooks the Patriarch’s own garden, a contemplative space filled with roses.

“The dog bite, of course. I’m glad my burgeoning medical skills were able to bring some relief to that poor merchant, although I confess to some relief of my own when an actual physician was called.”

Gabriel grunts. It’s clear from his expression that his thoughts are elsewhere.

Carl doesn’t mind. He knows he handled himself with aplomb, reassuring the terrified merchant as he cleaned the wound. Gabriel had returned with the ingredients he’d asked for, and he’d mixed up a paste to draw out any infection and to staunch the bleeding.

Even the physician had praised his actions, but that might have been because Gabriel was glowering at him. Either way, it was Carl’s conviction that the dog bite would heal cleanly.

“It wasn’t mad,” he says, returning the bandages to the box and placing the sharps on their padding. “It had control of its limbs and wasn’t foaming at the mouth. It didn’t bite indiscriminately—there were many more people it could have attacked, but it didn’t. In short, I don’t believe it was rabid. Which is very good news for my patient.”

“Your patient?” Gabriel finally comes to a standstill. His frown deepens. “None of the attacks were fatal. None of the injuries are severe enough to endanger life. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced the dogs aren’t trying to kill or maim. They’re out of control, but not in any malicious way. It’s as if—”

“As if they’re a rowdy group of boys without their schoolmaster,” Carl says, replacing the vials in the padded slots made especially for them.

“Exactly.”

He looks up, puzzlement creasing his forehead. “So what are they doing? Attempting to win someone’s attention?”

Gabriel’s expression is pensive. “That’s precisely what I think.”

Carl closes the lid on his medicine box and tucks it back into the wardrobe. “But why?”

The bang of the shutters makes him turn. The window stands open, the roses outside giving off a bruised scent with the force of Gabriel’s exit.

Typical! Trust Van Helsing to leave without providing an answer.

Carl exhales a noisy sigh. “Well,” he tells the long-faced icon of the Virgin and Child, “if there’s no danger, I’ll just go and make my own enquiries, won’t I?”

*

_Now_

The snuffling behind him gets louder.

Heart thumping, mouth dry, Carl turns slowly, an inch at a time, until finally he faces a dark shape. A rather large dark shape.

And then it gets to its feet, and Carl realises it’s not just large, it’s _huge_.

“Ahh,” says the shape. “Ahhhh.”

Uncertain as to whether this is friend or foe—a quick glance over his shoulder reassures him that the dogs are still waiting at the far end of the alleyway—Carl ventures a little closer. “Hello? Are you—”

The words _all right_ vanish from his tongue as the giant—good grief, this creature is taller than Frankenstein’s monster!—shuffles forward. A shaft of moonlight falls into the dark, stinking alley, enabling Carl to see quite clearly that the giant has not human features but the head of a dog.

He’s also dressed in full military regalia. A red tunic, patterned at the hem and threaded with silver. Clanking armour of the old Roman type. Heavy hob-nailed boots with intricate lacing. A gladius at his side, and a staff in his hand, which he leans against as if standing is too wearisome.

The dog-soldier’s nose twitches. “Ahhhhhh. Ahhhhh _choooo_!”

The dogs at the mouth of the alley howl in response, or perhaps in sympathy.

Carl ducks away from the fine spray of snot. He wipes his face on his sleeve and peers up at the giant dog-headed man. Despite his knees trembling and his heart knocking against his ribs, he steps closer. “Oh dear. Are you all right?”

The dog-soldier blinks. “I have a cold.” His deep, rumbling voice holds a pathetic note. “A _cold_.” He sniffs, rubbing at his glistening nose.

“That must be a dreadful nuisance.” The creature hasn’t eaten him. In fact, he seems quite harmless—apart from his vast size and the dog’s head and the weapons he’s carrying. Carl feels sorry for him. It’s bad enough having a cold when one’s nose is human-sized; it must be simply terrible with a canine muzzle. Pulling the cowl from over his shoulders, he offers it up. “Here. Use this.”

“Thank you.” The dog-soldier turns away and blows his nose into the cowl.

The creature is speaking Greek. A very precise and formal kind of Greek, but Carl can understand him; though he’d spoken in English, the dog-soldier clearly had understood him. Leaving this little mystery for another time, Carl turns his mind to more immediate matters, such as: How _does_ one cure a dog-headed warrior with a bad cold?

Common sense must play a large part in it. “This isn’t a particularly salubrious location, you know,” Carl tells him. “Your cold won’t improve if you stay here. You need fresh air, and a change of clothes, a decent bath—hot water, mind, with plenty of soap and a nice warm towel. Or a Turkish bath, that would be better. The steam is marvellously invigorating, just right for clearing the sinuses. Or so I’m told. Van Helsing won’t let me do anything touristic until— Well. You should bathe, anyway, and then—”

“Van Helsing? Gabriel Van Helsing?”

“You know him?” Carl ponders the wisdom of asking such a question of a seven-and-a-half-foot tall, dog-headed military man. “Of course you know him.”

“We are old comrades. We fought together before this city fell.”

Now that’s unexpected. Carl blinks. “You— What—”

“He’s looking for me, is he not?” The prospect seems to invigorate the dog-headed warrior. He puffs out his chest, the links of his armour clattering. “I know where we will find him. Come with me, little monk.”

A huge hand reaches towards him. Carl tries not to shrink away. “I’m a friar, actually. But—”

A leap, a bound, a rush of air, and he’s borne aloft, accompanied by the howling of dogs. Carl clings to the giant dog-soldier and hopes whatever sickness he has isn’t contagious. He squeezes his eyes shut, not at all interested in seeing Constantinople from the air, and before he can change his mind, they’ve landed.

Carl staggers, his legs gone wobbly. Straightening up, he finds himself on a patch of empty ground, dusty and scratchy with weeds. A high, ancient wall stretches away. In front of them is a monumental gateway of three arches, the span of each bricked up and filled in with marble columns and limestone lintels to create smaller and smaller doorways. It is ruinous, desolate, yet a light glows above it, bathing the whole with a yellow glow against the night sky, and a sweetness hangs in the air.

Gabriel is lounging against the central arch, one foot propped against the scuffed and weatherbeaten wall, his arms folded. He lifts his head, tips back his hat, and surveys the two of them, his expression unreadable. “I should’ve known.”

“You left without saying a word,” Carl says, bristling. “This is our assignment, Van Helsing. We are partners. Of course I was going to see what I could find out by myself, since you hadn’t the common decency to share your plans with me. And don’t you dare say it’s too dangerous, because I’ll have you know I was chased across the city by hordes of slavering dogs. Hordes! It was terrifying, and where were you? Lazing around here at some old ruin. And you had the nerve to criticise me for wanting to go sightseeing! Really, Van Helsing, you are outside of impossible. I have to do everything myself…”

He trails off at a smothered bark of amusement from his doggy companion. The huge warrior wipes a smirk from his mouth. “I beg your pardon. I have never before heard anyone speak to Gabriel Van Helsing in such a way.”

“Sometimes he needs to know that he’s wrong.” Carl folds his arms and taps his foot. “What is this place, anyway? Those are the Theodosian Walls, I suppose, and this is, or was, a gate of some sort…”

“The Golden Gate,” the dog-soldier says.

“Ah. I see.” Realisation tumbles over Carl and he shrinks a little, ashamed of his display of temper.

“Yes,” Gabriel says, scuffing at the broken ground. “The site of Byzantium’s last stand against the army of Mehmet II. According to legend, an angel descended to fight alongside the Christians. When the emperor, Constantine XI Palaiologos, fell in battle, the angel carried him to safety. Constantine sank into a deep sleep. The angel buried him here, beneath the Golden Gate. One day, it is said, the emperor will rise again and take back the city. Christian Byzantium will be restored.” Gabriel pauses, looks away. “It’s nothing but a fairy story.”

Dazed, Carl says, “You were the angel.”

“He was.” The dog-soldier nods. “I was there, too.” Baring his fangs in what surely passes as a canine grin, the dog-warrior holds out his hands. “Gabriel. It has been a long time, my friend.”

“You know each other,” Carl says wonderingly. “You really do know each other.”

“Chris and I go way back.” Shaking off his dark mood, Gabriel pushes away from the gate and strolls over to sling an arm around Carl’s shoulders. “Carl, allow me to introduce Christopher of Canaan, sometimes known as Christopher of Marmarica, patron saint of travellers, storms, transport, gardeners, epilepsy, and toothache.”

“Christopher,” Carl repeats, offering his hand as if this were a formal occasion. “Wait. _Saint_ Christopher?” He yanks back his hand and stares again at the doggy visage. “I thought— I mean— Your appearance…”

St Christopher cocks his massive head. His expression is rueful, inasmuch as a dog can look apologetic. “It has been commented upon many times.” He catches his breath, turning away swiftly before his mighty body is racked by an enormous sneeze. He blows his muzzle into the cowl and faces them again. “Your pardon.”

“So, you’re sick.” Gabriel looks up at his old friend, halfway between amused and annoyed. “It’s because of you that Cardinal Jinette interrupted our holiday in Venice—”

“It wasn’t exactly a holiday,” Carl reminds him. “There was that demon, if you remember. And the serpent in the ossuary. Nasty thing.”

“Interrupted our holiday,” Gabriel continues, “to come here and get to the bottom of why Constantinople’s dogs had gone crazy. They’ve been forming packs and roaming the streets at night, attacking people. No,” he holds up his hands as St Christopher begins to voice a question, “no one’s been killed. Injuries have been minor. But still. Packs of dogs. Roaming the street. Not a good look.” 

A woebegone expression downturns St Christopher’s mouth. “I apologise for causing such disruption. Centuries have passed since my last bout of sickness; I had forgotten how inconvenient it was.” He pauses, nose twitching, but masters the sneeze. “The dogs were simply trying to attract attention to my plight. I believe things got a little out of hand. I will, of course, compensate all those who were injured or distressed.”

“Uh-huh. You do that.”

“I hope—” St Christopher steps back and turns aside, sneezing into the cowl. He blows his nose loudly, then continues, “I hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

“The Patriarch and the Holy Order were, shall we say, moderately concerned.” Gabriel frowns, gaze fixed on the increasingly soggy piece of cloth. “Is that…?”

“Your partner’s hood? Yes.” The dog-warrior dabs at his nose. “He kindly offered me the use of it.”

Gabriel looks at Carl. “Partner?”

St Christopher laughs. “Come now, Gabriel, I might have a cold but a dog’s nose is many times more sensitive than a human’s. I can smell you on him.”

A fierce blush burns across Gabriel’s face.

Deciding this might be a good time to interrupt, Carl asks, “How do saints get sick, anyway?”

“The same way archangels do.” Humour lights St Christopher’s voice. “By spending time with humans.”

Carl absorbs this. He nods, seeing the opportunity for a once-in-a-lifetime study. A study of such import the Vatican will surely erect a statue of him in St Peter’s Square. Or maybe not a statue. Perhaps a small commemorative plaque. Anyway. “If I cure your cold, can I have my cowl back?”

Apparently recognising his intention from his tone of voice, Gabriel sighs. “Carl…”

St Christopher is bemused. “Naturally I will return it once it has been thoroughly laundered.”

“No, no.” Carl flaps his hands as enthusiasm gets the better of him. “I want it just the way it is, full of saintly snot. I want to make a study, you see. Properly scientific, of course. Your, ah, emissions could save countless lives. You said you hadn’t had a cold in centuries. Just imagine if I could isolate the elements that enabled you to remain illness-free for so long! I could develop a serum. It could be a panacea.”

“Or a biological weapon,” Gabriel puts in.

“I assure you, my work is only ever used for the forces of good.” Carl gazes up at St Christopher in what he hopes is a reassuringly professional manner. “My laboratory is hidden deep under the Vatican. Access is strictly controlled. It was two months before they allowed Van Helsing into it, and if that doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.” He sticks out his hand. “What do you say, St Chris? A cure for your cold in return for the handkerchief you made of my cowl. Do we have a deal?”

St Christopher looks between them, a smile glinting from his fangs. “Determined, aren’t you?”

Gabriel grunted. “Some would say dogged.”

“Really, Van Helsing. Your attempt at humour is quite uncalled-for.” Carl grins as he shakes hands with St Christopher, then he hooks his arm around the dog-warrior’s wrist and leads him away. “Now, about the cure. Garlic is very good for colds, and ginger, too, of course… We should brew a tisane and include sage and thyme, and a drop of honey…”

Behind them, Gabriel sighs theatrically. With a swirl of his coat, he follows.

Far in the distance, a pack of dogs howl.

**Author's Note:**

> [A dog-headed St Christopher](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/29/Saint_christopher_cynocephalus.gif) is one of the more unusual Byzantine depictions of saints. It persisted in the Eastern Orthodox artistic tradition until the 17th century.


End file.
